


Defective Canines

by 07krysalis



Category: Tom Clancy's Rainbow Six (Video Games)
Genre: Action, Batteries, Grief, Hereford Base, M/M, Mute is not mute, Presidential Plane, Romance?, SAS, Smoke's Birthday, Tango spotted turd floer, Tragedy, Very Sad Mute, What's in the canister?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-31
Updated: 2017-08-31
Packaged: 2018-12-22 01:54:10
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,834
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11957244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/07krysalis/pseuds/07krysalis
Summary: Operation: Guard Dogs. Three-man squad. Presidential Plane. Terrorists. Bedlam became all pervasive and strategy was neglected--all for the sake of preserving his life. The thing that was worth more than anything else.





	Defective Canines

The Special Air Service (SAS) is a special forces unit of the British Army of the United Kingdom, first active from 1941 to 1945, then from 1947 onward. The unit conducts diverse unconventional warfare and specializes in a number of roles involving covert reconnaissance, counter-terrorism, direct action and hostage rescue. To enter the corps, soldiers go through a grueling training course called "Selection"; this consists of numerous fitness tests, endurance exercises, week-long survival, resistance to interrogation and so forth.

I was always the youngest in the room.

Ever since the day I got enlisted.

Surrounded mainly by seniors, professionals, superiors, veterans; although I knew I had it in me, I never considered getting this far. Like a pipe dream that outstretched its hand just to reach me--little to no effort on my part. I was given everything and I used them well. Innate talent, quiet expertise, humble intelligence: a chorus of compliments bathed me, overwhelmed me, and I knew it was not to support me; these hollow praises existed for the sake of my ruination. This flattery was mere  _chuttering_ , echoing for my downfall, my inevitable failure.

And it did happen. The crutches that held me up, betrayed me for the first time. It was a shock to have them kicked under me; I've never felt a loss this direct, this self-accountable, this _painful_.

 

 **14/05/2015 16:47**   **Presidential Plane: Heathrow Airport, West London, United Kingdom**  
**Operation: Guard Dogs**  
**Agenda: Defend Package in Cargo and Luggage Hold**

 

"Jammer deployed, ready to activate," I murmured into the squad coms whilst placing the chrome black instrument beside a barricaded doorway. The Moni, Britain's Government Communication Head Quarter's original design, was a portable device that had the ability to cause interference then blackout any radio transmissions, electronic gadgets or communication devices; the 'jamming' apparatus was originally meant for covert and sensitive meetings for official and foreign interests. I was one of the primary engineers on the project. Being me, I created a variant of the device that doubled its effective range. This signal disruptor was my pillar, all that I relied on, all that constructed my purpose, all that kept me safe from being detected by attackers' reconnaissance drones.

Placing the jammer there without keen situational and environmental awareness--the flaw that I dared not improve about myself--annihilated me. Utterly and disconcertingly. Suddenly the plane's oval windows, whose bulletproof nature cultivated a sense of security in me, double-crossed me. It was an unbreakable surface, but it was still glass--transparent, explicit. The safety recognized proved to be a double-entendre. Lies. Masked lies. I was not invisible, nor invincible. I was a mere soldier inside a claustrophobic cage, blinded by the trust I imposed unto my academic competence. If only I'd realized sooner: in the field, shadows were also enemies.

"Tango spotted north, reporter entrance. Stay easy," the voice was low as it advised yet somehow it retained its quality of being relaxed. Typical Porter and his enthusiasm of the high-risk. "More tangos approaching. Clear off, Mute, back on site or you're going to get snookered."

"I am initiating another jammer," in hushed tones, I responded into the coms. Perhaps it was my pride, or my stubbornness, or even an underlying insecurity, that urged me to place the last signal disruptor next to the stairs in order to secure the mission's success. I thought if the OPFOR's intelligence was jeopardized then it was automatic that eliminating them would be easily sorted by the defending squad. That was not the case. I knew  _now_ not all enemies were the same, not all were all brawl, not all were tactical. This time, they did no drone-scouting; what for when they had grenades and 4x scopes.

By then how could I have known that I should have listened to Smoke? How could I have known that he was worried about me?

"Mute, relocate. OPFOR's spotted you," this time he sounded alarmed, agitated even. He seemed impatient for me to evacuate; I couldn't understand then what the slight trembling in his voice meant. 

"Negative, Smoke. All signal disruptors have been deployed. OPFOR communications effectively disabled," my reply reverberated through the radio; it was harsh and egotistical. Too trusting, too confident.  _Was I to blame after all?_

"Mute, listen to me, you proper bastard. Your device can't jam a sniper's scope," he responded shortly, quickly, exasperatedly. It was tinged with restlessness, anxiety. "I'm not mucking about here. Get your bloody  _barmy_ ass on site."

There came a shift in my breathing yet somehow I persevered with an undisturbed pulse. "Aye, re-positioning," my voice came out as a dull whisper, loud enough to be perceived on the other end, but weak enough to be overpowered by a breached door. It was abrupt. Too sudden to notice, but harsh enough to negate my retreating movements. I was thrown against the opposite wall. An anti-everything air rose up from the destroyed barricades; the small hurled bomb knocked me nearly out of consciousness. And my heart-rate became unintelligible, unpredictable; I almost could not feel it until it sent blood in my lungs. Catastrophe, I felt it all over my palpitating yet paralyzed limbs. "I'm down." The sound that scraped itself out my throat was but a cough of shameful blood.

They did recon from afar, undetected. They came for me first, clearing the first floor using aggression with the resolve of cut-throat hunters. It was a straightforward strategy that all came down to who'll win the firefights, who'll endure the deafening explosions. And I fell down first. I failed to stand my ground. I became the sole symptom of the operation's near collapse. I heard a blurred voice on the coms, it screamed for my name. It screamed on about how I should crawl away, how I should take cover, how I shouldn't die. Not right now. Not on our second mission together.

I was heaving, exhaling and inhaling desperation. In the middle of the aisle of the plane's passenger seats, I found myself withdrawing. There were open windows, but there was nothing for me to do. I was not getting up anytime soon; the trail of blood I left behind was evidence to that fact.

"Stay alive, Mute. I need you alive. So the mission won't fail. I'm coming, mate." I wanted to tell him to blame it all on me if the mission did fail. But my tongue wouldn't budge, my lips only quivered and my head grew more distorted by the second. Anemic and frail, I put pressure on the open wounds in an attempt to alleviate insensibility. The Tangos planned their next move outside, in cruelly swift moments. The clock counted down for me, whilst it ticked decisively for them.

"Smoke, you'll expose yourself. Anchor the site, leave it to me," the Captain finally spoke. I wasn't relieved; there was disappointment boiling in his throat. If I were able to mouth a single word, it would be:  _unnecessary_. I was unnecessary; prioritize the current operation.

"Sir, Mute needs a medic ASAP. With all due respect, I won't be saying an 'aye'."

He was one to amuse himself with mayhem, however he was not one to disobey. It was clear by now that there was something I was missing, something I absolutely needed to comprehend. About him. His recklessness, his bravery, his sacrifice. But I couldn't put all the pieces together; I was incapable of deciphering who he thought I was to him. Perhaps all the engineering, manufacturing and calculating that I did, threw the human heart I did not know I had in the first place into disarray. And maybe that was the case for the both of us even; there was no way of knowing. We did not talk much.

We only sat silent on benches in the cluttered workshop, working on our own whilst being each other's company. We were mostly invested in our own ideas, in fixing and tweaking our personal gadgets. We never really paid attention to the other's presence. Did something change along the way? Did someone start looking up from their tinkering? Did someone start stealing glances? Did someone stir apathy into feeling?

"I got you, mate. No need to worry. You'll be alright," he whispered in a manner too gentle to be considered a soldier's voice.

"Porter," a foreign urge made its way unto my tongue, inciting me into saying his name rather than his operator alias. "Thank you."

The air was still and vulnerable. Tranquil atmosphere of gauze and slow motions with irregular footsteps from the floor above. Trustworthy was the soft glow of the afternoon that was all pervasive in the long line of windows around us; the blue carpet of the plane cradled my ache and his careful tending. I looked at him, embarrassed, and felt the warmth that he emitted; the drowsiness left me as soon as his gloved hand began to patch me up.

"It's nothing, Chandar. Don't push yourself."

The OPFOR, like an unseen storm, flooded the plane from the second floor. It was an uncontrollable push of a tidal wave of top-down control; they stormed in, heavily armed with incendiary guns that formed strategic, vertical kill-holes out of the destructible floor. All that was required for them to do was to look down with a keen eye and a steady hand--the prey would eventually cross their newly established line of sight.

Smoke noticed the change of scenery, the capitalized vulnerability. And he performed what he did best swift and determined; he threw his remote toxic gas grenades onto one of the holes. The canister was tossed, mounted itself onto the exposed metal frame; its flashing red light signaled its preparedness for activation. First, he listened, inferred as to where the enemies might be treading. Then his hand, without a trace of indecision, detonated the high-damage charge. A dense cloud of yellow noxious gas dispersed into the once breathable air. Oxygen became perverted, subjugated by the lethal concoction. Thuds indicating collapse, asphyxiation and incapacity followed soon enough. This was the nest of toxic beauties fulfilling their purpose well, as he would've said.

However, I heard nothing come out his mouth. Not a solitary word, not a solitary breath. He was collapsed beside me, still and unresponsive.

An empty magazine, shell casings and dust. It all floated against the harsh sunset, against my hitched breaths, against the clock that seemingly stopped for a second, but continued on forever, without him.

 

* * *

  
**30/05/2015 02:35 Hereford Base, England**  
  
The TV room was a black hole, a void where dust particles were consumed and spat out once more. The television and the standing lamp were miserable replicas of real ones. A vexing red and a spiteful blue were the colors of the sofas in the middle of the room. Sitting on them comfortably were white target-shooting dummies perforated with uncountable holes. Against the wall on the immediate right of the entryway lacking a door was a metal cabinet housing more battered down dummies. The sole thing that lit the space was the vague glow of scattered wall lamps; showered with such grim fluorescence was the room of inanimate objects.

I stood at its entrance, contemplating whether I should drink my coffee here or not. A deluge of uncertainty became the prevalent response. 

Then I discovered I was afraid. Of the sleep deprivation, the repetitive nightmares, my starved coffee-drowned stomach, my abandoned ego--I was frightened by the present manufactured by the architects, guilt and regret. I had within me ghosts and I was almost past my limit; soon enough I would turn into a phantom myself, accompanied by secret sufferings. The earth that shaped me was slowly pulling me in. I stood before a pit that matched my form, one push and that would be it. Equally, one step could work just the same.

I walked back into the scarcely lit corridor with paces light and immaterial. There was nowhere else for me to belong in during my early morning trips but his room. Past the kitchen and dining room was the main stairs; its concrete steps washed over with weak mechanical lighting. On the second floor, the long corridor was unfriendly to eyes not used to obscurity. I moved with ease but not confidence. It was doable, but never easy. Porter's room was at the very end of the hallway, opposite of my own room.

The paper cup in my hand felt cold; the coffee inside it did not give off smoke. Lukewarm and unbearably bitter, I disposed of it in a nearby bin where it poured itself empty.

Porter's room was always unlocked these days. Cleaner but more desolate. I stopped at the doorway, unfeeling and breathing easy. No doubt did plague my mind against the action that followed; I entered the room, unarmed and helpless. I've been doing this for the past week or so: stepping into his bedroom without his permission. No one minded it, because no one knew. 

Sheets were off but his mattress remained soft. I paused to lie down for a moment, to look at the ceiling he once may have watched too during sleepless nights. The rise and fall of my chest reminded me I was an animated corpse. It tore me apart, sent unrelenting shivers afflicting my insides. Fortunately, the pretend workshop at the foot of the bed called me by the name so, as a puppet enthralled by tugging curiosity, I sat on the metal chair poisoned with rust. Saved by hallucinatory sensations, a pained sigh escaped my mouth. It was nothing to be proud of yet it relaxed me. My instrument of a body noticed the drawer underneath the wide table, and a hand that didn't feel like mine forced it open.

A deadly yellow spoiled the stationary air. I fell back, the chair followed suit. In coughing fits, I waited for the toxicity to dissipate. And as it did, a note landed onto the floor beside me: ' _No touching, you muppet. These are my beauties, not yours_ '. A slight chuckle became my first clean exhale. Typical Porter. If he saw how someone finally fell for his trap, he'd be snickering his bloody ass off.

Getting back on my feet, I rummaged through the papers in the drawer. There were notes about the biological components of his infamous gas canister, however behind those confidential sheets were photos. Him and his previous associates. Operation names, dates and aliases were handwritten by him on the back of each photo. 

Then there was the picture of us, side by side. Guns lowered, unmasked with neutral faces. First mission together, a success. Though on the back, there was no mention of any operation name, date or alias. There was an incomplete sentence written with a flustered hand and a resolute heart.

' _More than anything else_.'

A knock on the door made me recapture my lost breathing. My presence probably became known from the resonant falling down of the steel chair. It was the Captain who acknowledged me being here; he creaked open the door with his expression obscured. "Chandar, let's 'ave a chat."

"Aye, sir," I said in a faltered voice, in a terrified voice.

I followed the Captain to the second floor balcony. The cool breeze blew in fits as if mocking me.

Captain, with a lit cigarette in his mouth, leaned his back against the metal railing. I stood a good distance away but not far enough to not hear what he had to say in his usual collected tone. "I've been doing this longer than you have been alive. Allies come and go, whether they like it or not. That bloke, brilliant with his toxic grenades. Didn't give a toss about his personal safety though, thrill-seeking bastard. He enjoyed it, the adrenaline, the chaos," he let out an exhale of dark smoke. His cigarette was halved but far from spent, still he decided it was time to put it out. Under his foot, the tiny flame died. As nicotine dispersed, the intensity of his voice lingered. "I felt it this time though, it was quite different. Not about relishing the beauty in havoc, but prioritizing your life. It wasn't about him, it was about you, Chandar. Don't 'ave to spell it out for you, lad, do I?"

Then I realized I was afraid. Again.

"I know what I have to do, I hope the same can be said for you, lad. If you don't want to seem weak, sound angry, but don't blame yourself. And if you don't want to seem like anything, if you still want to hide, treasure him. Stay silent,  _but treasure him_."

The Captain left.

Alone, the air seemed heavier. Absence became a feeling that only I could feel. Then there was memory, treacherous memory. And abandonment, coiling around my dormant heart. Winds carried Porter's voice into my ear. He was telling me how I shouldn't die.

I asked him why he had to.

**Author's Note:**

> Why linger, why turn back, why shrink, my Heart?  
> Thy hopes are gone before: from all things here,  
> they have departed; thou shouldst now depart!  
> A light is pass'd from the revolving year,  
> and man, and woman; and what still is dear  
> attracts to crush, repels to make thee wither.  
> The soft sky smiles, the low wind whispers near:  
> 'tis Adonais calls! oh, hasten thither,  
> no more let life divide what death can join together.
> 
> [Percy Bysshe Shelley - Adonais]


End file.
